


Toasting Like the French

by lilyplujambah



Series: An Unspoken Truth [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, alternate perspective, explosive kitchens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26354911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilyplujambah/pseuds/lilyplujambah
Summary: Left on his own, Fitz pressed his laptop shut and hopped off the bed. Pacing around across his room, he heard a jarring crash from the kitchen. Knocked out of his self-induced reverie, he ran hurriedly out of his room.“What the hell?!” he asked, to the disaster he stood in. The small kitchen was coated in droplets of some sticky, yellow liquid. The toaster, Daisy and the counter on which she was working was especially decorated. Slices of squished, scorched bread lay scattered upon the island counter and knives, spoons and spatulas could be found tossed around the tiled floor.
Relationships: Leo Fitz & Skye | Daisy Johnson, Leo Fitz/Jemma Simmons
Series: An Unspoken Truth [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915114
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Toasting Like the French

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lifeinlegends](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeinlegends/gifts).



> This was written in response to a beautiful comment from lifeinlegends on my fic ‘An Unspoken Truth’ who wrote, “I’m very curious as to what was going on when Daisy was toasting something” and even requested that I provide context.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own anything in association with Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D..

The afternoon was still young when Fitz finally died. He’d been playing Plant Versus Zombies, competing against Hunter to see who could survive the longest. It was not often that Fitz was the first to bite the dust but, in the case of the past week, since Jemma had asked him to dinner, he’d lost much more frequently. He groaned loudly and dropped his laptop onto the bed beside him. Running his hands through his hair, he found himself more disappointed than frustrated. He was letting something so menial - platonic - get to him. He was overthinking it; reading into it.  
  
“You good, man?” he heard through the tinny laptop speakers. He quickly flicked his window over to see Hunter’s face large in the centre of his screen.  
  
“Yeah,” Fitz sighed. “I’m done for.”  
  
When he looked, he could see his friend’s confusion laced through his expression. “What’s up with you, mate?”  
  
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he lies. He nods to the door of his bedroom. “Imma take a break; check on Daisy.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s cool.” Fitz could see the sympathy in Hunter’s eyes. “Catch you later,” he said before he disappeared from the screen.  
  
Left on his own, Fitz pressed his laptop shut and hopped off the bed. Pacing around across his room, he heard a jarring crash from the kitchen. Knocked out of his self-induced reverie, he ran hurriedly out of his room.  
  
“What the hell?!” he asked, to the disaster he stood in. The small kitchen was coated in droplets of some sticky, yellow liquid. The toaster, Daisy and the counter on which she was working was especially decorated. Slices of compressed, scorched bread lay scattered upon the island and knives, spoons and spatulas could be found tossed around the tiled floor.  
  
“I’m, um, toasting something,” Daisy said, somehow still smiling after the cataclysmic warzone she’d caused in his kitchen.  
  
“What were you-” Fitz was interrupted by the ironically peaceful tune of his ringtone. “Bugger!” he sighed as he walked, defeated, back into his room.  
  
“You know you can bring the phone in here?” he heard Daisy call from behind the door.  
  
He complied quickly, saying, “was planning on it.”  
  
Picking up the phone without checking the caller ID proved exceptionally stress-inducing. Not a moment after answering, Jemma’s voice rang through the phone.  
  
Beside him, Daisy dropped another spatula when she heard Jemma’s voice. Fitz quickly covered the phone’s microphone with his hand and exclaimed, “Jesus Christ!” As he turned to look away from the kitchen, he asked, “Jemma?”  
  
Fitz could almost hear a tremble in Jemma’s voice. “Hey, Fitz. I just want-”  
  
As if his day wasn’t already bad enough, the toaster suddenly started smoking and the fire alarm began blaring. Fitz dropped his phone on the couch in the lounge and ran to disable the alarm. He got back on the call as speedily as possible. Uncertain if she was still there, he asked, “Jemma?”  
  
“Yes, Fitz?” he heard, quiet and tentative. Fitz expected that his best friend would be much more curious, it was concerning.  
  
“Sorry, Daisy was, um…” he flashed a glance at his uninvited guest. She shrugged briefly before turning around to continue: “toasting something,” Fitz finished, at a loss for what she was actually doing.  
  
“Toasting something, eh?” Jemma teased through the phone.  
  
He chuckled, glad that they were still able to tease each other. “Yeah.”  
  
There was a slight intake of breath before, “you know what, Fitz? I’ll text you the details.”  
  
“No, Jems, no,” he rushed to say, selfishly unwilling to let the sound of her voice go. “Tell me, what’s up?”  
  
“The dinner with my parents. You’re still in, right?”  
  
Laughing under his breath, he responded, “oh, yeah. That.” He didn’t suppress the sigh that came over him. It was the dinner that had been interrupting his sleep for ages and intruding on his thoughts for hours on end. “Of course.”  
  
“It’s tomorrow, Fitz.”  
  
He sighed loudly. He knew that, of course, but he struggled to stop it from unveiling another layer of fear he hadn’t known he had. “Uh-huh.”  
  
He could hear Jemma’s attempt at hiding her sigh. “Look, I know it’s not ideal but I can’t do anything about my parents’ traditional ways. I’m asking as a friend. A friend in need.”  
  
A friend. It echoed in Fitz’s mind. A friend. That was all they were. That was all they’d ever be. She’d given him hope the day she’d asked him, but it was all likely a big misunderstanding. “I know. I just can’t help but see it go the wrong way. You told me they liked politicians and businessmen. And, believe it or not, I’m in neither of those professions. I’m an engineer. Who makes little to nothing for a living.” Fitz decided that he might as well not hold his feelings back. “I thought about it last night, Jemma. I don’t want your parents to hate me, you’re my best friend in the world! They’re probably gonna rip me apart like you said they did to all your other boyfriends who met them. I don’t want to be some boy who you cared about and then tossed away when you got bored. I can’t.” His voice cracked at the end and he, in his peripheral vision, he saw Daisy come up beside him.  
  
‘What’s going on?’ she mouthed, but Fitz just waved her off and slammed his bedroom door shut as he moved inside.  
  
“I would never do that to you, Fitz!” he could hear Jemma cry into the phone. “We’ve been friends for eight years and I’ve never tossed you away.”  
  
“But it’s not the same, Jemma.” He grunted quietly. He was making a valid point and there was absolutely no way she could deny it.  
  
“Fitz, please!”  
  
“Fine, Jems. I’ll do it as your friend, or whatever.” He shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck.  
  
“Thank you so much, Fitz. I’ll see you tomorrow. And, I’ll text you the when and where tonight.”  
  
He muffled his sigh and responded, “sure, Jemma.”  
  
“Are we good? Friends?” he heard through the phone. The word stung. Friends.  
  
“Yes, friends. Forever and always,” as they’d always promised. He ended the call and threw his phone onto his bed. Friends. It ran in his head like a mantra; a broken record. Daisy decided to come in just as Fitz made the unwise choice to kick the footboard of the bed. Groaning and bent over himself, Fitz clutched his foot. Daisy snorted but quickly ran to retrieve an icepack from the freezer. As Fitz positioned himself comfortably in his bed, he was not surprised to find Daisy walking in holding a blue ice pack sprayed with whatever concoction she had earlier been using. Gesturing to the ice pack, he asked, “what was that ‘something’ that covered the entire kitchen and triggered the fire alarm?”  
  
Daisy began laughing. “You know French toast?”  
  
Fitz groaned. “You didn’t put that in the toaster, did you?”  
  
“Well… I asked Jemma if there was any way I could find French toast in England and she said that French toast is basically just bread soaked in egg. So, I whipped an egg - I assumed that you’d have to spread the yolk evenly - soaked the bread in it for twenty-ish minutes. Then, I put them in the toaster two by two.” Fitz watched, gobsmacked, as Daisy frowned slightly. “They kinda just fell to the bottom and they hardly held together and the only slices that toasted are the black ones on the island counter.” When Fitz didn’t respond, she added, “is that not how you make French toast?”  
  
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no. God. No.” Fitz’s head shook vigorously. “Not at all.”


End file.
